(On A Commonplace Person Who Died In Bed.)

This is the end of him, here he lies: The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes, The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast; This is the end of him, this is best. He will never lie on his couch awake, Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak. Never again will he smile and smile When his heart is breaking all the while. He will never stretch out his hands in vain Groping and groping--never again. Never ask for bread, get a stone instead, Never pretend that the stone is bread. Never sway and sway ’twixt the false and true, Weighing and noting the long hours through. Never ache and ache with the chok’d-up sighs; This is the end of him, here he lies.

Sonnet.

Most wonderful and strange it seems, that I Who but a little time ago was tost High on the waves of passion and of pain, With aching heart and wildly throbbing brain, Who peered into the darkness, deeming vain All things there found if but One thing were lost, Thus calm and still and silent here should lie, Watching and waiting,--waiting passively.

The dark has faded, and before mine eyes Have long, grey flats expanded, dim and bare; And through the changing guises all things wear Inevitable Law I recognise: Yet in my heart a hint of feeling lies Which half a hope and half is a despair.

Translated from Geibel.

O say, thou wild, thou oft-deceived heart, What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast? After thy long, unutterable woe Wouldst thou not rest?

Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies, And fragrant youth has fled. What made to seem This earth as fair to thee as Paradise, Was all a dream.

The blossom fell, the thorn was left to me; Deep from the wound the blood-drops ever flow, All that I have are yearnings, wild desires, And wrath and woe.

They brought me Lethe’s water, saying, “Drink!” “Drink, for the draught is sweet,” I heard them say, “Shalt learn how soft a thing forgetting is.” I answered: “Nay.”

What tho’ indeed it were an idle cheat, Nathless to me ’twas very fair and blest: With every breath I draw I know that love Reigns in my breast.

Let me go forth,--and thou, my heart, bleed on: A lonely spot I seek by night and day, That love and sorrow I may there breathe forth In a last lay.

The Gresham Press,

UNWIN BROTHERS,

CHILWORTH AND LONDON.